


i just need someone to break this wall of bricks i've built

by entwinedsouls



Series: handle with care [1]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguments, Canon Compliant, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Depression, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Insecure Oliver, M/M, Oliver Hampton/Connor Walsh Fluff, POV Connor Walsh, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Realization, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem, Soul-Searching, Trauma, coliver - Freeform, have fun reading, i don't know what to tag anymore, i guess, lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 11:53:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12108153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entwinedsouls/pseuds/entwinedsouls
Summary: Do you ever do it? Sift through all the times you’ve had with someone you once held so closely, replaying them in your head again and again, looking for that one happy memory you can hold onto without all the pain that came with it, and then realize there aren’t any and everything is just one meaningless mess? You are down to your hands and knees, trying to clean up the stain of your mistakes that would just never quite disappear. The more you try to mend yourself, the bigger of a mess you make.Season 1 Coliver angst that is set post-Sam's Death. In which Connor finds himself alone again, and struggles with the reality of what he has done. He has developed a drinking habit in the process of trying to forget about Sam and ultimately, Oliver. This part in the trilogy lingers more on Connor's thoughts and how his life has changed post-That-Night.





	i just need someone to break this wall of bricks i've built

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Chelsea here! This is my first attempt at a oneshot (or a three part oneshot) and it was written when I couldn't stop wondering about how things would have played out if Connor and Oliver were the main characters, and i ALSO needed some closure right then because I was too impatient to wait for more episodes. This one goes a lot in detail when it comes to the thoughts that cross Connor's mind and how he deals with them. Also HUGE thanks to colormayfade on tumblr for editing and being a great beta!
> 
> I really do hope the people of the internet enjoy this! I worked hard on it :3
> 
> If you want to talk, I'm intertwincd on tumblr and @nonchalantiy on twitter!

It wasn’t as if he was scared, right?

Wrong. Of course he was scared, petrified even. Connor never knew what it was like to be brought back into a memory again and again every night; but that was before he and the other 4 of the k-5 killed Annalise Keating’s husband with their very own hands. He woke up drenched in cold sweat some nights; knuckles always bleach white and clutching at his sheets, trying to find some comfort, some security. This, ladies and gentlemen, was one of those nights.

He took lengthy breaths, in and out, trying to wash out the discomfort, fear and most of all—guilt.

In his head, Connor had long stopped trying to forgive himself for what he had done, because it was wrong in every sick disgusting way. Can you imagine killing your lecturer’s husband, cutting him up into sizable chunks and then pouring gasoline over it before proceeding to burn it? They might as well had tied a pink ribbon around the body and left a thank-you card with it at her doorstep.

As Connor raked his fingers through his wet hair, he laughed bitterly at what a mess he was. Even he couldn’t give himself the consolation he needed.

What he did the other night seemed to have created a black hole in him, a vacuum that sucked at whatever dignity or feelings he once had.

“Connor, I know this is hard on you, but you have to try— ” W es had tried to make him feel better, offering empty words of comfort that echoed around the house of Annalise Keating.

“And then what? Forget? We killed a man, Wes. ” Connor had stormed out of the house, unable to sustain another minute being suffocated by the air in the Keating house. God knew how many times he had to put himself through those memories until they’d stop resurfacing.

He sat in his car, letting his head rest against the steering wheel while the steady hum of the engine calmed him. The night in retrospect started its loop again, a broken VCR, a reminder that he had a debt to pay.

He wanted to be punished for what he had done wrong, he wanted to face the consequences of his crimes; but he just couldn’t find the bravery in him to own up.

Although Connor feels the things he does and claims to already accept that he himself had actually done something so unthinkable, he knows there is some part of him that is still in disbelief, too scared to come out of his forged armor and be true to himself for once.

The drive home was painful. Being alone was always an open invitation to the voices and the flashbacks, the silence a game of fill-in-the-blanks for the screaming and wailing.

He turned his music all the way up, and yet all he could hear was a mixture of his own screaming and the voices in his head going on and on and on. Thank God his subconscious self could still drive him home safely. 

A whole week after, and Connor still hadn’t  made any progress , unless the increasing number of beers he could finish within an hour passed as‘progress’.

He always liked living in the city. He found comfort in the fact that it was never completely asleep, and that he could fall into sweet slumber to the whirring of the city coming alive. Like it was a life form on made up of a million others. Despite how people always call him vain and conceited, it was ironic how afraid he was of the idea of solitude.

Every night he turned on the TV, and weirdly enough,  the static buzzing and monotone voices between the constant flickering of channels provided c onnor all the company he needed.

And,  of course, there would be alcohol. Beer, usually, but occasionally, a fancy bottle of Jack as a congratulatory award for putting up with himself for yet another day.  But surely we all know that wasn’t the only reason Connor had such a knack for drinking.

He was pathetic, lonely,  and empty–just like the barren apartment he owned.

Connor would fall asleep with the windows open, television still on,  surrounded by a pity party of beer cans scattered everywhere: the coffee table, the floor and even one still half full in his hand.

The other hand would hold a cell phone more often than not, and if you were lucky, his thumb would still hover over that number even his drunk self couldn’t bring to call. On other nights he would lie in the dead center of his bed, arms hugging his knees together, boxing himself in feeble attempts of covering  up that gaping hole in his chest called Oliver.

Who would’ve known Connor Walsh had feelings after all?

When the dreams came, every single detail—especially the ones he tried hardest to blur out or dilute with the uncanny amounts of beers he consumed—would remain untouched; sometimes even clearer and sharper. It was as if the alcohol he doused himself in was never enough to erase the memories, like the blood on his hands that would always make him feel dirty, inside and out no matter how many times he washed them.

The reason Connor took so much alcohol was to knock himself out to the extent that the hangover he’d wake up to could distract him for everything he feared: the truth.

He hated it when he was sober and awake, because even though he’d be one step further from the voices in his head, he would see his life laid out in front of him (like a PowerPoint presentation of his life—“Look, this is how much of a failure you are!”) and, as the people in the streets partied their lives away, he would feel every second passing, every tick of the clock a reminder that this was his life.

Staring at the ceiling, he learns this really is it. The hope and courage and kindness he had accumulated his whole life seemed to lessen every time he replayed that night in his head. He had his one shot in making his life one to be proud of, loving someone and letting them love him back and he blew it. He fucking blew it.

And then as the sky would turn another shade brighter outside the window of Connor Walsh’s apartment, he’d wonder about Oliver.

He’d piece everything together, every fray memory, every single second shared between them—trying so hard to find that one stray thread; the one thing he did or didn’t do—the single moment where he went wrong, the first symptoms of a splintering relationship.

He would go on for hours, just looking at the peeling cream-colored plaster until his vision doubled over. Sometimes, he’d even take out the old shirt Ollie left at his place ages ago and will himself not to call him, even if it meant just being sent to voicemail—at least he could hear his voice.

That’s when he would realize he no longer had the luxury of calling Ollie. He hurt him, and that was reason enough to cut all ties between them.

Do you ever do it? Sift through all the times you’ve had with someone you once held so closely, replaying them in your head again and again, looking for that one happy memory you can hold onto without all the pain that came with it, and then realize there aren’t any and everything is just one meaningless mess? You are down to your hands and knees, trying to clean up the stain of your mistakes that would just never quite disappear. The more you try to mend yourself, the bigger of a mess you make.

And yet, Connor did it repeatedly despite knowing there was nothing left to savor from that fractured relationship between him and Oliver. It hurt him to reminisce, but there was little  he wouldn’t do to just hang on to some reminder of the latter.

In summation, it was beyond-words-woeful. But there was something about that one night that was different, because Connor figured it out.

He had found the missing puzzle piece, the answer to his one aching question; he knew where he went wrong. It was all his fault, all him.

He was scared of hurting others, so he never committed and instead gave away parts of himself to people who called him names and moan that ”God, they loved him,” and yet… it was only sex, nothing more.

The thought of commitment and exclusivity scared him enough to never settle down with anyone, enough for him to disappear before they could get his last name, enough for him to only leave empty white sheets in their wake.

He pushed people away when they got emotionally involved—he pushed Ollie away.

For years he had lived in the mindset that he was trying to protect others from getting hurt by him, but all this damned time the only person he was protecting was himself. The more distance he put between himself and all the people who cared for him (or who cared, in general), the safer he felt.

He was a liar. He lied to his parents when he said he was doing fine, he lied to Ollie when he said his charm wasn’t a weapon he used oh so often, but most of all he had been lying to himself: convincing himself that he was only lessening the casualties by doing what he did. He lied and he lied, telling himself he was over it, telling himself he was an independent, capable young man as he would pull out another beer.  One sip for taste, two for company and three to forget everything completely.

So much for capability.

▪

There is only one thing worse than waking up smelling like a bar itself on a Tuesday morning with your apartment looking like an aftermath of World War II—having a witness.

In this case, it was Oliver Hampton; IT wizard, hacker, and the newly discovered love of Connor’s life. While you go on to wonder why on earth he was here, Connor’s attention was snatched by that feeling in his stomach whenever he…

“Fuck, I called you, didn’t I?”

Oliver looked up from his tablet, feet propped onto the coffee table that still had empty cans of beer that reeked of misery, despondency and the night before. He looked nothing short of as tired as Connor, and he definitely had been up till late.

For starters, Ollie was always a light sleeper; but his phone had been ringing off the hook; the caller ID flashing like a warning as he pondered on whether he should pick up or block the number. Naturally and eventually, Oliver picked up (he could never delete c onnor’s number anyway, he memorized it by heart); with his sweaty hands while he paced the floor in his slippers.

“Ollie? I know you really don’t want to talk to me right now, and it’s four in the morning…but I just, I figured it all out. I’m so broken and messed up and so fucking stupid, but I figured it all out. I hurt you a lot, and I lied even when the truth was out in the open.”

Oliver stared at the carpet some more, hearing his heart beat in his ear. “And I just need you to know that I’m sorry, and I miss you, I miss you so much. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ollie, I really didn’t.”

The line went dead and the man on the receiving end heard his heart shake and shatter just a little.

That is how he ended up in the depressing apartment of Connor Walsh. With a soft heart like his, Oliver couldn’t have kept away for long even if his life depended on it; he just wasn’t the type to walk away and stay away. He’d known both of them would cross paths sooner or later, but he didn’t expect it to be this soon.

When Oliver had let himself into the apartment (Connor never changed his lock, and he had a spare key—“For emergencies,” Connor had said) the whole place emitted the foul smell of alcohol, and his eyes carried out a panoramic sweep of the area, landing on the subject—a man presumably wearing clothes from the day before, a shirt with its sleeves folded and its collar unbuttoned and a cell phone lying next to his ear.

He did what he had to; changed Connor into one of his old tees and carried him to his bed. He found a trash bag and started to clean up, but stopped halfway. He had to stop picking up after Connor and let him learn his own lessons, or nothing was ever going to work for both of them.

Now, Connor lay in his bed, sitting against the headboard in the fresh set of clothes courtesy of Ollie. “I…What did I say to you?” He looked down, studying the creases on the  sheets.

Oliver had so much he’d wanted tell him, so much anger and frustration he hadn’t been able to voice all this time. There were days where he felt he could punch Connor square in the face, but then and there he couldn’t seem to summon that anger because his heart ached in longing for this man that was staring at him, bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair.

“Something along the lines of I really miss you…or some really needy drunk talk?” Connor tried to probe some memory of him calling Ollie, but nothing would come. He chuckled nervously, still struggling to hold a steady gaze.

The bespectacled boy sighed. “You really don’t remember? Not even a little?” A crease formed between his eyebrows, suggesting that the phone call meant so much more than just some “really needy drunk talk” as Connor had put it.

Connor bit his lip, equally frustrated.  “I…really don’t remember.”

The other man reached for his briefcase, putting his tablet inside and getting ready to leave. “Well, then I guess it’s about time I get going.”

  He didn’t sound like Oliver at all. There was something cold in his voice that made Connor feel even more helpless than before.

“Wait, no. Don’t go. Stay.”

Oliver took one look at Connor who held onto the fabric of his shirt, trying to find some part of himself that didn’t feel forlorn.

“Fuck, why do you keep doing this to me?” 

“You always do this. You bat your eyes, and everything goes your way; you tell me to stay and I always do.” Oliver wasn’t thinking anymore. Every word he had vested in himself for so long… they were all pouring out.

“You made me watch you tear my heart to shreds, you cheat on me; and when you turn up again I just fall helpless to your charm, always crawling back to you.” Months and months of words gushed out—a broken dam.

“It’s not fair that I have to go through all of this. Sometimes, I just feel so damn vulnerable, you know? When you use that charm of yours and you get anything you want, I can’t help but feel like I’m just one of those ‘things’ to you. I feel so worthless. You do it repeatedly and you keep hurting me. And when I finally find the courage in me to actually leave you, this is what I get?” Sleepless nights, a thousand and one texts begging to be answered, and tears leaked from his shattered heart.

Connor sat cross-legged on his duvet, startled. Oliver was still …Oliver. The first and last person he had ever truly loved, and everything he said made sense: Connor pushed people away when the only thing he had wanted was to get closer.

“Look around you. You have a drinking problem, and you can’t take care of yourself. I told myself I had to stop cleaning up after your mistakes, because you will never learn if all everyone ever did was cover up your dirty work.” 

Oliver held up an empty can. “Can after can, you are drinking your whole life away, and you don’t seem to care about how you are hurting yourself, but can’t you have a little compassion and see how much this hurts the people around you? How much this hurts me?” Raised voice, pounding head.

“You broke me, Con. You broke me and now that I’ve left you, can’t you at least give me some comfort in knowing we are both better off apart? Not to have you call me four in the morning and see you destroying everything you are? Don’t you think I deserve at least that much?”

Connor kept silent, lost in his own turbulence.

“I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have come looking for some kind of…explanation.” Oliver wiped at his face which was now tear stained. “Look at you.” he laughed bitterly. “You’re not even trying. And those words you said to me, I really thought you figured it out.”

The law student stared at his palms, trying to grasp at any memory of the night before—anything at all.

“You’re right,” Connor started. “I’m a tragedy and I hate it just as much as you do…but I can fix this, I can fix us.”

Oliver scoffed. “God! Get over yourself, Connor. You fucked up, big time and you aren’t going to be able to fix us if you don’t start working on yourself.”

Even in crucial moments like this, Oliver’s heart still ached for what they once shared, but he knew it in his conscience that this was the right thing to do. He handed Connor some freshly laundered clothing and the black garbage bag he found earlier, not making eye contact the entire time.

“Here,” his voice softened, “Clean up this mess. Wash yourself of this self-pity and try to get yourself together.”

At this point, Connor had long surrendered, so he took the towel and went into the shower.

In the small cubicle the water rained down Connor’s lean physique, washing off the feeling of exhaustion, clearing his mind of the haze it had been caught in layer by layer as he lathered his body with soap and rinsed himself clean.

His skin grew red at the heat of the water, and he remembered. He remembered everything—from the beer to calling Ollie—he remembered it all.

Most importantly, he remembered that he did, in fact, figure it out.

He put two and two together and realized that the only reason Oliver would’ve turned up with that light in his eyes only barely lit was because Ollie had chosen to believe him when he said he had an explanation.

With his heart finally revving up again after what seemed like weeks of stagnancy, Connor hastily wrapped his towel around his waist. There was still time. He could still explain himself and convince Ollie he could find a way to mend himself and their relationship—light up that fire in Oliver’s eyes again.

“Ollie?” Connor called out as he stood before his apartment, only to be greeted by the quiet Ollie-less air of the living hall.

What lay before him was a whole new arrangement, a few novels stacked neatly on the coffee table replacing the beer cans that had been there for weeks on end, a laundry bag of clean clothing and the shades opened to let the light in.

Connor looked around for any sign that Ollie might return afterwards only to find a spare key—laid next to a bag of Chinese takeout.

The steam from the food was wafting out in slow spirals—warm, just like the spot on Connor’s temple that tingled; remnants of the kiss Oliver had left when Connor was tucked in bed, his calloused fingers clutching Oliver’s hand.

Connor probably didn’t realize, but that was the first time his nightmares kept quiet through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! part ii will be posted soon. 
> 
> If you want to talk, I'm intertwincd on tumblr and @nonchalantiy on twitter!


End file.
